


sullied

by oceansinmychest



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Image, Female Gaze, Introspection, Mirrors, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Partial Nudity, Rhetorical Questions, Slight Serena/June
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Serena Joy scrutinizes herself in the mirror.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	sullied

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in the shower, not surprisingly. I didn't attach this moment to a particular season; I was more intrigued by exploring Serena's character.

In the washroom, Serena Joy Waterford exercises her abuse of power and uses a skeleton key to lock herself within the bloody chamber. The key beads sweat on the ledge of the sink, temporarily neglected and subsequently forgotten.

Lifting her proud head upright, she makes eyes with the miserable housewife reflected. Her noble profile depicts a careful grace. Yet, a multitude of burdens saddle those stiff shoulders. Barefoot, she stands – statuesque – poised for a masterpiece that takes hours of concentration both on the artist’s and the model’s behalf. She paints a portrait of herself, of her entrapment, of her sad life with the wedding band another shackle.

Her ring digs deep into her skin like a brand. Sometimes, that finger grows numb. She flexes that slender digit to assess its worth. She clutches her wrist in growing contempt. She hates it. God, how she hates it. This is her fault, isn’t it? Did she not plant the seed in Fred’s head? Would it be resolved if he was dead? No, another revolutionary would come forth.

There was a time before she was a Waterford; the memories have become fleeting, distant, a warped purple haze. Perhaps she’s become too complacent as a Commander’s wife, seemingly resigned to the lot she’s conditioned and crafted, though she’s far shrewder than that.

 _Where did I go wrong?_ Serena ponders before justification wears on her icy resolve. _I’m not wrong._

Delusions of grandeur choke her. The crucifix dangling on a simple silver string thuds dully against her chest. Her stomach cramps. Even as some desecrated ruin, a little loss of faith keeps her on edge, but she doesn’t dare look over her shoulder to acknowledge the wolf at the door. 

When Gilead had another name, she preached ideals and virtue – an Eden that would save America from its shame. This place marks the foundation of her wrongdoings. Is the reality she aspired to create even real?

She fakes a faint smile for herself, for the public, for her husband. A pink, pink mouth curves sensually. Then, there’s a hint of teeth, a sliver of a crescent moon. Even the most subtle of motions feels forced, if not practiced. From afar, no lines grace her face. Up close, she sees every wrinkle, every crack in composure. Nearly pressed against the reflective surface, she sees all her pores and tiny imperfections. Her left hand runs above her arched brow.

Serena Joy cannot recognize the haggard woman in the mirror who attempts to remain stoic, to stand tall to face the brunt of destruction. A stranger herself, or not quite, stares back. Here lies the estranged concept of the self.

When has she _ever_ been herself? 

The teal, tailored dress is another cage, another obstruction. Confirmed to her stiff, uncomfortable body, she wants to peel off that second skin, that layer of a title which gets her nowhere. Since when did she become so grim and austere? She became a little colder, a little crueler, a little more rigid.

Her mantra of “I want what I want” remains unfulfilled. Her hunger leaves her lean and mean. Will a baby help or heal? Has she ever truly known herself? 

A swift hand reaches for the zipper that violently thrums against the nape of her neck. The restrictive collar, borderline clerical, offers little leeway. The dress pools around her feet in a lifeless puddle. She steps atop that holy cloth, desecrates it with a malevolent kick. Now laid bare, this is her body, this is her palace, this is the Gilead she made and now she has to live with it.

Serena Joy drapes herself in a towel as if it’s an antiquated robe. The act makes her none the wiser; this isn’t Clytemnestra dressing up Agamemnon, but oh, she’s dreamt of poisoning Fred and closeted that uncouth desire.

She wishes for someone – not _anyone_ – to encircle their arms around her waist in a comforting embrace. In an empty act, she hugs herself and envisions soft hands, softer arms, holding her tight. Misty eyes conjure up an image of Offred with her Old Testament rage; that’s the mark of revolutions. With a gasp, her nails scrape across her décolletage. She leaves behind a welt of three.

Her thumb sinks into delicate flesh above her décolletage, to see if she’ll feel it. She’s soft there, protected by the subtle rigidity of bone. It’s not enough. This subdued feeling means little. Lightly, her middle finger digs into the indentation of her soft, delicate throat - between the carotid arteries.

Even here, in front of the mirror, she poses. Is still posing, remains standing despite her stiff stance and twisting limbs. 

_Notice me, don’t notice me._ Queen of Tumbledown wants to become some living myth until it’s a little too much for her to tolerate. 

She frees her hair of the strict, militant bun and picks out the pins, as if she’s tossed a live grenade. Blonde rivulets streams over her shoulders and back, a modern Eve who devoured more than the fruit.

In privacy, Serena nitpicks - she scrutinizes herself the way her mother and her mother before her taught her. Removing the towel, her clawing touch slithering up her back leaves behind a painful patch of red. Her palm coasts along the smooth plane of her quivering belly. She pinches the fat collected and stored above her hipbone. Since Gilead, her body has never felt so alien and estranged from herself.

Who is this looking back? 

Judgment throws a stone at this glass house. Searching deep inside herself, she supposes that she can’t be forgiven.

_I’m skeletal. I’m a corpse. A ruin when I want to be a reliquary. A living relic._

Tilting her head back, inhaling through her nose, it seems that she has forgotten what she wants. Held captive by a peculiar dissonance, Gabriel’s trumpet keeps ringing in her skull. When she taps her temple, she faults it on a migraine. Tomorrow, she’ll see a doctor - a luxury handmaids cannot afford. 

For her aches and pains, she searches for a bottle of pills to take off the edge until she remembers her lot. This isn’t Dr. Caligari’s cabinet, but instead her medicine cabinet lays barren, rid of American novelties. 

Serena cannot recall the last time that she had a decent night’s rest. With bleary-eyes, she spies a second, more distorted version of herself in the mirror. A hazy, grainy film that hints towards a green aura, the color of springtime, of envy, of all the things she could never be.

Disgruntled, she turns on the tap. She needs the burning heat of water to feel something, even if it is immolation for the atrocities she’s committed. She cups the water in her shallow palms. That inner saboteur begs her to speak out, to stand up, and to rise against.

She washes her face, scrubs it clean of performative makeup, her mother’s insistent nagging drilling in the back of her skull. _Don’t be a painted whore. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Be pure and for heaven’s sake, wipe that frown off your face. You’re prettier when you smile._ She recalls the coarse terrycloth’s humiliating abrasion as her mother wiped away melted mascara and the residue of smudged eyeshadow. Some things stick.

Lurched forward, Serena scrubs her face until its raw, as fresh and pink as a newborn babe. She sinks her nails into her cheeks. The gesture reminds her to breathe. To listen to her guilty, filthy heart.

She clutches the edge of the sink, lurching forward, breathing shallowly. Droplets rove down her parted lips and sharp chin. An aberration watches her erratic movements. Downright demonic, she could be swayed by the villain's part, by the temptation of leaving Gilead behind in favor of the wintry north. Looking away, she doesn’t bother to pray, white knuckled and holding on for the sake of holding on.

Steam obscures her features and clouds the fairytale mirror. Comprised of tiny fragments sewn together with a well-intentioned stitch, she could have been the work of Baroque paintings or a medieval tapestry. The weight of her faith clutches her marble shoulders.

How does she expect to become a living saint?

A cloth wipes away the fogged glass. 

With the tap still pouring out liquid heat, she cleanses her hands. Attempts to purge the sliver of dirt from under her nails. Serena Joy scrubs and scrubs, falling for the Macbeth paradox. Her nail trails across the rigid tendon riddling her wrist masked by old flesh. When her skin is pink and born anew despite this guilty baptism, she exhales. Inhales. Wonders if her faith is worth the cage.

Is she haunted by her actions or simply the outcome?


End file.
